


5 Times Stiles Drove Someone Else's Car (and One Time Someone Drove His)

by lightning and a lightning bug (spoons)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Multi, Other, UST, five times fic, sterek
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-19
Updated: 2012-08-23
Packaged: 2017-11-12 12:09:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/490829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spoons/pseuds/lightning%20and%20a%20lightning%20bug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of vignettes, set early season two.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Jackson

“Four hours of la crosse practice. Whose idea was that?” Stiles strips off his grass-stained, sweat-soaked jersey and tosses it in his locker. He glances over his shoulder, then, certain the coast is clear, adds, “Oh yeah, our darling coach. I swear he’s psychotic, and that’s saying something in a school were a significant proportion of the student body are turning into creatures out of mythical legend.”

Sitting on the bench behind Stiles, Scott makes no comment. He’s still wearing his la crosse uniform, pads and all, and his fingers are flying across the keys of his phone. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out who he’s texting.

Stiles sighs and looks back in his locker. He wore his grey t-shirt here. It’s one of his favorites, all soft and just a little stretched from all the times he’s washed it. It also shows sweat like nobody’s business, and Stiles isn’t about to head home with pit stains. That shit just isn’t attractive.

“Dude, I’m going to take a shower,” Stiles says to Scott. “Wait for me, okay? Scott?”

Scott makes a noncommittal noise and doesn’t look up from his phone.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Scott, I swear, if you leave without me for the next full moon I am buying you a dog collar, and I’ll use my six-year old neighbor’s bedazzler to put your name on it in rhinestones.”

Scott still doesn’t look up. Stiles sighs and steps out of the rest of his clothes and pads into the showers. Someone else is still there, standing under the spigot at the very end of the room. Common locker room courtesy dictates a minimal amount of eye contact, so Stiles doesn’t look long enough to see who it is. He showers quickly, not trusting his friend’s concentration in the slightest. 

After he’s finished he towels off and shakes the water from his hair in a way that reminds him a little uncomfortably of the labrador he had as a kid. Christ, maybe Stiles needs to stop hanging out with so many members of the canine family. He could hang out with some other creatures, maybe, try absorbing some of their traits. Wizards? Vampires? Vampires might be cool.

“Hey, Scott,” Stiles calls as he heads back into the locker room. “What if you were a vamp—” He trails off as his own voice echoes back at him from the empty room. “What if you were gone. Oh, that bedazzler is getting some use tonight.”

Stiles yanks his clothes on in frustration. He’s usually the one giving Scott a ride, so he understands their routine is a little messed up and that’s apparently difficult for Scott to handle, but sometimes Stiles really worries about that kid. And hates him a little bit too, since now he has no ride home. He feels for the cell phone in his pocket. His dad is probably still at the station, but he gets kind of cranky when Stiles calls him at work.

Stiles is weighing the pros— not having to walk for miles in the dark and risk getting bitten by an angry werewolf/shot by a nearsighted hunter/abducted and forced to join a circus as the guy who gets chased around by the lions— against the cons— a pissed off Sheriff Stilinski— when he hears the sounds of someone swallowing their own tongue.

Okay, that might not be exactly what’s going on, but that certainly what it sounds like. The shower turns off abruptly and the sound gets even louder, a horrible gagging noise.

“Um,” Stiles calls out. “Hello?”

The gagging stops, and for a moment Stiles has a flash of panic. He’s been attacked once by a supernatural creature in this locker room, he’d rather not go through that again. He picks up his la crosse racket and starts edging for the fire extinguisher just in case when a strained voice calls back to him.

“Stiles?”

“Jackson?” Stiles drops his racket and makes a beeline for the showers. “What the hell is going on in there? You sounded like you were—”

Stiles rounds the corner of the showers and stops short, but it isn’t because of Jackson’s strangled yell of “Don’t!”

The other student is on his hand and knees on the shower floor, and there is a puddle of something viscous and black swirling towards the drain in front of him. As Stile’s watches, Jackson retches, and more black liquid comes spewing from his mouth.

“Oh my god!” Stiles flinches involuntarily, then feels instantly bad about it. Jackson is pale and trembling; Stiles has never seen him look so sick. He doesn’t know it was even possible for a human being to look this sick. “Can I get you anything? Do you need— I’ll call 911, okay? That’s what I’ll do. Hang tight.”

“No.” Jackson’s voice is weak, but the glare he fixes on Stiles is as venomous as ever. “Not 911. I need… Derek.”

“Derek?” That was about the last thing Stiles was expecting him to say. “Why him? Is this some werewolf sickness thing?” He takes a step backwards. “Is it contagious?”

“I don’t know what the—” Jackson clenches his teeth on a groan and hunches down against his knees. “I just need to get to Derek. He knows… what to do.”

“Okay, okay. We’ll go to Derek. Shit!” Stiles smacks his forehead as he remembers. “I don’t have a car!”

“I have mine.” Jackson is struggling to stand. Stiles immediately moves to help him, grabbing him by the arm. Jackson tries to shrug him off, but slips on the wet floor and almost falls again. This close to him, Stiles can see two bright spots of color on his cheekbones.

“Come on,” he says, making it exasperated instead of gentle because he knows Jackson is never going to respond to gentle. “Let’s get your clothes on so you can stop showing off. Not everyone in this school wants to see you naked, Whittemore.”

Jackson is able to snort disbelievingly at that, and he lets Stiles guide him back into the locker room and toward the bench where he threw his boxers, jeans, and t-shirt. He manages the boxers and struggles into the jeans, but they abandon the shirt as he retches again.

“We’ll clean that up later,” Stiles says as he steps delicately around the puddle. “That’s… yeah, that’s just fine.” He grabs his sports bag and follows Jackson out of the school. “Where are your car keys?”

“What?” Jackson sways on his feet and Stiles steps up so they are walking side-by-side. “You’re not driving my car.”

“You can barely stand!”

“You can’t fucking shift!”

“Hey, I am an excellent driver!”

“Remind me again, who was it that drove their jeep into the back of his best friend’s mom’s car?”

“Well that’s completely out of context.”

They reach Jackson’s porsche. He puts a hand to his left pocket, but Stiles is quicker. He snatches the keys from Jackson’s jeans then dances backwards, holding them up.

“Hand them over,” Jackson snarls. Stiles rolls his eyes. Being snarled at has gotten a lot less scary since it started happening to him roughly ten times a week.

“If you can grab them,” he tells Jackson patiently. “You can drive.”

Jackson makes a lunge for the keys, trips, and would have ended up on his face in the parking lot if Stiles hadn’t stuck out his arm and pushed him back against the car.

“Yep, it’s the passenger seat for you.” Stiles gives him a big smile. “But at least you get to ride shotgun.”

He hurries around to the driver’s side of the porsche before Jackson can come up with a retort. The car door swings open under his hand like it’s been waiting for him, and the carseat curves around his body like a lover’s embrace.

“Oh,” Stiles says softly as he runs his hands over the steering wheel and across the dash. “Yes. This is nice.”

“If you wreck it, I’ll kill you. Your dad is gonna search the woods for years and they still won’t find all the pieces of your body.”

“That’s gruesome and specific.” Stiles keys the engine and tries not to clap his hands at the sound it makes. “May I remind you I’m not the one spewing tar from multiple orafices. Do you want a bag or something? It’d be a shame to ruin this beautiful upholstery.”

Jackson glares like he’s still picturing Stiles in pieces. “Shut the fuck up and just drive.”

“Gladly.” Stiles eases the car out of the parking lot and heads in the direction of Derek’s house. He’s well aware this is probably the only time in his life he will ever be in control of a car— or literally anything in the world— this nice. He’s torn between speeding, to get Jackson to help faster and to really see what this car can do, and obeying every single traffic rule that’s ever existed so he doesn’t damage something that undoubtedly costs more than his house.

He looks over at his Jackson, intending to ask which he’s prefer Stiles to do, and finds the other student lying back with his eyes closed. A fine sheen of sweat covers his upper body, and his hands are balled into fists. A line of black substance has starts to trickle out of his ear and slowly inch down his neck.

“Are you okay?” Stiles asks before he realizes how stupid a question that is. “I mean, obviously you’re not okay, but... Do you want to talk about it?”

Jackson doesn’t open his eyes. “No.”

Well, Stiles didn’t really expect him too. He drives for a few more minutes in silence, but Jackson looks so fucking miserable Stiles just can’t stay silent. “So you’re not okay,” he opens with, as if Jackson needs the recap, “But Derek can help you?”

That gets Jackson to open his eyes, and the look he turns on Stiles is one Stiles could die happily never having seen again. If he thought Jackson looked miserable before, it is nothing to how he looks now. It’s all Stiles can do not to stop the car, get out, and take off running in the opposite direction when Jackson is looking at him like that.

Then Jackson blinks and looks away, and the feeling is gone. Stiles almost wonders if he imagined it in the first place, except he doesn’t think his imagination is capable of creating something quite that sad.

He presses the gas pedal a little closer to the floor, and they pass the rest of the drive in silence.


	2. Lydia

Stiles isn’t really a fan of parties. By all rights they should be fun. He remembers when they used to be, when parties meant birthday cakes and staying up past his bedtime and watching his dad twirl his mom, barefoot and laughing, through the kitchen.

Now parties mean standing awkwardly around someone’s living room, drinking cheap alcohol and trying to pretend he doesn’t care at all that nobody has asked him to make out yet.

Okay, by nobody he might mean a specific somebody. His eyes stray to the far corner of the room where Lydia is standing far too close to Max Smith, the host of the party. Max says something that makes Lydia laugh loudly, tossing her head back and sending a cascade of strawberry blonde curls over one temptingly bare shoulder. 

Stiles pulls a face in their direction. He’s pretty sure it’s a menacing one; he’s spent a lot of time around Derek Hale lately, and he’s been practicing.

Allison sidles up to the snack table where Stiles has staked his claim and notices the direction of his gaze.

“She’s not interested in him,” Allison says gently as she reaches for a handful of pretzels. She drove tonight— crucial to the lie she told her Dad about studying at Lydia’s— so she avoids the punch.

“Wise decision,” Stiles tells her, ignoring her previous comment. “I’m pretty someone’s peed in this.”

“It wasn’t me.” Scott appears at Allison’s side, apparently having reached his limit of time spent away from her, which Stiles has calculated to be around roughly five and half seconds. Scott doesn’t need to drink the punch, he’s acts like a drunken idiot pretty much any time Allison is in the room.

He was never like Stiles. Stiles was happy staying in on the weekends, playing video games, looking up weird shit on the internet, and listening in on his Dad’s phone calls and sneaking copies of his police reports. Scott did all of it with him, but it wasn’t his first choice. Scott has always wished he was getting invites to these kind of parties. All it took was becoming co-captain of the la crosse team and dating the hot new girl to make it happen. And oh yeah, becoming a werewolf.

But even if this isn’t Stiles’ favorite place to be, it’s nice getting to hang out with Scott and Allison in a situation doesn’t involve any supernatural creatures or life or death decisions. And they both look so happy. Scott’s habitual scowl is replaced with the easy grin Stiles remembers from before all this werewolf business, and Allison’s normally sad eyes have begun to sparkle a little in the dim light.

A song with a heavy dance beat comes over the stereo system. Scott’s face lights up and he grabs Allison’s hand, dragging her towards the corner of the dining room that’s become a make-shift dance floor. Unfortunately for him, and everyone else who has to witness it, Scott has been convinced that being a werewolf hasn’t just increased his la crosse skills but his dancing skills as well.

Allison shakes her head and shares an eye roll with Stiles. She mouths Go talk to her before disappearing in the crowd.

Stiles glances over at Lydia again. She’s got one hand on Max Smith’s arm and she’s leaning into him like she’s going to kiss him. Stiles’ hand clenches around his untouched cup of punch, but he can’t make himself look away. Max looks confused and a little concerned, which Stiles thinks is the exact opposite of the way a person should look when someone like Lydia is pressing herself against your body and dropping their head back and digging their nails into your arm, mouth opening in a scream—

Stiles realizes what’s happening a second too late. Max jerks backwards and Lydia tumbles to the floor. She twists her body around almost frighteningly fast and scrambles backwards until her back hits the wall. She’s staring at something in front of her, eyes wide and terrified.

Stiles abandons all dignity and turns his sprint towards her into a stumbling knee-slide across the floor. Lydia kicks at him once but he manages to avoid her sharp heel and pull himself to her side. He remembers the ice rink, the way she went into some sort of fit that at first he thought was a panic attack but quickly realized was much, much worse.

This seems to be the same sort of deal; Lydia is gasping and crying and trying to scream all at the same time. Her feet are still kicking feebly and her hands are thrust out in front of her, fingers crooked like claws.

Like at the ice rink, Stiles puts his arms around her, and even though it’s like hugging a corpse he doesn’t let go. While the rest of the people at the party are starting to mutter and back away, Stiles focusses on repeating Lydia’s name, gently and firmly, in her ear.

The fit is over almost as soon as it started. By the time Scott and Allison have pushed their way through the gaping crowd, Lydia has collapsed, boneless and shaking, into Stiles’ chest.

“What’s wrong?” Allison asks, dropping to a crouch. “Lydia, sweetie, what is it?”

“I want to go home,” Lydia mumbles. Allison reaches out to touch her shoulder but Lydia throws off her hand. Angrily, she shoves hair out of her eyes and sits up. Her eyes narrow into a glare as she takes in the sight of everyone standing around her. “I want to go home!” she yells.

“I’ll take you.” Stiles climbs to his feet and offers Lydia a hand up. She ignores it, which is exactly what he expected. He looks at Allison. Her face is scrunched up in worry, her hand in a deathgrip on Scott’s arm. “I’ll take her,” Stiles reassures her. “You’ve got a curfew.”

“You don’t have your car.”

“You can drive mine.” Lydia fishes her keys from her purse and presses them into Stiles’ hand. She manages an almost-convincing laugh. “Man, I am so drunk.”

“You’re a freak!” someone from the crowd shouts. The words hit their mark, but Lydia only lets it show for a second before she’s laughing again and waggling her fingers at Max Smith and twirling out the door.

Stiles follows her out and shuts the door of Max’s house firmly behind him. Lydia is already several feet ahead of him, tottering unsteadily on her high heels. Stiles can’t tell if it’s still an act or not, but he hurries to catch up with her all the same.

“Here, let me.” He pulls open the passenger-side door with a half-bow that was supposed to make him look gallant but he has a sneaky feeling just made him look like a hunchback. He resists the urge to say “Milady” as he shuts the door.

Lydia’s keys are loaded with charms and keychains that clink together as Stiles starts the engine and pulls on to the street. He doesn’t bother asking Lydia which way her house is— he knows it by heart and in light of her whole losing-her-shit-at-a-party thing he thinks he can get away with this small bit of stalker creepiness.

Still, the silence in the car is getting a little oppressive, and Stiles has never been one for keeping his mouth shut.

“So,” he says, even though he has no idea where he’s going after that. “Quite the party, huh? Coulda used more appetizers, you know, of the solid rather than liquid variety. I had these little spinach cream cheese pastry things at a wedding once, and they had these designs on the top of them, and I remember thinking ‘how did they do that’? Was it like a stencil or did someone—”

“Stiles.” Lydia rolls her head against the back of her and looks at him. Her eyes are red but her vision is clear. Stiles doubts she had any more alcohol than he did. “Stiles I... I don’t know what’s happening to me.”

“You mean with the whole... screaming, flailing, seeing things no one else can see thing you got going on?”

“No, I mean the whole letting a total moron drive my car thing,” Lydia snaps back.

“Okay, okay.” Stiles rolls his eyes but eases off on the gas just a little bit. “No need to get nasty.”

Lydia sighs and looks out the window. And maybe this is more than a little bit of stalker creepiness, but Stiles can tell just from the way she is holding her shoulders that Lydia is trying not to cry.

“Hey,” he says, adjusting his grip on the wheel. “Hey, look. It’s going to be okay.”

“How can you say that?” Lydia rounds on him, looking so angry Stiles shrinks back a little against the driver’s side door. “What do you even know? How can it be okay? I woke up the other night covered in blood. Do you know what that feels like?”

“Um.” Stiles isn’t quite sure what to do with that mental image. “Lydia—”

“Oh god, and the worst part is now everyone has seen it! At school, at the party. I used to be popular, you know? I used to be normal. And now everyone looks at me like I’m fucking insane. No one wants to sit by me or spend any time with me or even be anywhere goddamn near me in case my crazy rubs off on them—”

“I’m near you,” Stiles points out quietly.

Lydia has the grace to look ashamed. “Yeah,” she murmurs after a moment. “Thanks.”

“Sure.”

It’s a few minutes before they reach Lydia’s house, and they both stay silent. Stiles pulls up next to the curb and kills the engine. Neither of them move to get out of the car.

“Hey listen,” Stiles says, turning slightly in his seat so he’s facing Lydia. “I’ve had some pretty shitty stuff happen to me before, and some stuff I couldn’t even begin to explain, and... and it can really suck. I know. But... You’re not alone, Lydia.”

Lydia looks at him with eyes full of tears. She sniffs once, and that’s it for Stiles. He can’t stop himself from reaching forward and pulling her across the gear shift into a hug. Part of his brain is screaming in delight at getting to touch Lydia like this, but the rest of it is thankfully telling that part to shut the fuck up, now is not the time.

Lydia pulls back from the hug sooner than Stiles would like, but she’s got herself a little more under control and doesn’t look like she’s going to cry anymore and that makes Stiles feel sort of warm and fuzzy on the inside.

“Will you back me up when I tell everyone at school how drunk I was tonight?” she asks.

“Uh, sure?”

Lydia shrugs. “It’s less embarrassing then being crazy.”

“I don’t think you’re crazy.”

Lydia smiles. It’s a little wobbly but it’s definitely a smile, and it’s aimed at him. Stiles gives her one back, huge and bright. Lydia lets out a watery snort.

“Thank you, Stiles,” she says. They both get out of the car, Stiles walking around the hood to meet her on the sidewalk. He shoves his hands deep in his sweatshirt pockets, both so he doesn’t try to hug Lydia again and because it’s a lot colder out here than he was expecting.

Lydia looks up at him through her lashes. “How are you getting home?”

Huh, Stiles hadn’t thought of that. “I’ll walk, I guess. It’s only a couple of miles. Or maybe Scott will pick me up.”

Lydia continues looking at him strangely, and it gets a whole lot stranger when she takes a step closes and asks in a low voice, “Do you maybe wanna come up to my room?”

“Oh my god.” Stiles can’t help the words from slipping out. He takes a deep breath and shuts his eyes, because if he looks at Lydia for one second longer he’s going to ending up bolting by himself to her bedroom, stripping off all his clothes and lying across her bed, screaming “Take me now!” until she gets there.

“Lydia,” Stiles breathes. She’s standing so close to him he can almost feel her. “Lydia, you have no idea— God, I would love to say yes. I would say it too, I would in fricken _heartbeat_ if you actually meant that question.”

He opens his eyes and Lydia is looking up at him with a little furrow between her eyebrows, and it’s so adorable and she’s looks so vulnerable it’s all Stiles can do not to yell “just kidding!” and start hugging her again. But he knows what she’s doing. He knows she’s hurt and scared and lonely, and that she doesn’t really want him. Right now, she wants anybody, and Stiles just happens to be closest person who was maybe a little bit nice to her. But Lydia doesn’t deserve to spend the night with someone just because they were nice to her. And while the question to go up to her room matches the start of literally every fantasy Stiles has ever had about a girl, in his dreams it’s always said with lust and excitement, not desperation and sadness.

Stiles leans in, and though it goes against everything he ever imagined himself doing in this situation, he touches his lips to one perfectly smooth cheek, and pulls back.

“Goodnight, Lydia,” he says.

“Goonight, Stiles.”

Stiles waits until he sees Lydia go safely inside her house and shut the door before texting Scott and Allison where he is and that’s everything is fine. Scott texts back that he’s coming to pick him up, but Stiles doesn’t feel like waiting. He knows Scott will find him, so he shoves his hands in his pockets and starts walking alone.


	3. Danny

The ball hits Danny’s hand at just the wrong angle, and Stiles winces at the sound it makes. Coach starts yelling at Greenberg for throwing too hard, and Greenberg starts yelling about being yelled at, but everyone else crowds around Danny.

He pulls his helmet off with one hand and gently tugs off his glove. His thumb is already purple and swelling and sticking out at entirely the wrong angle.

“Ah,” Danny says, unflappable as ever. “That hurts.”

“Holy shit,” Stiles all but screams, because no matter what else’s he’s seen, that’s disgusting. “It’s dislocated!”

“Yes, thank you.” Even while being in what is probably excruciating pain, Danny manages to roll his eyes. “It needs to be _re_ located, actually. Can someone...?”

Almost as one the la crosse team takes a breath and steps backward. For a second, Danny looks vulnerable.

“Jackson?” he asks, eyes scanning the crowd.

“He didn’t come to practice today,” Scott says. His face darkens but he doesn’t say anything else.

“Right.” Danny looks down at his injured hand. Everyone else looks at the grass. Coach keeps yelling at Greenberg.

“Oh my _god_.” Stiles drops to his knees. “I’ll do it. Just... tell me how. And don’t mind me if I, you know, puke.”

“Thank you,” Danny says, and it’s half-sarcastic, but it’s half-grateful too. “Grab my thumb.”

“You mean your hideously swollen and disgusting thumb?”

“Yes. Grab it.”

“Okay, now what?”

“Now push.”

“ _Push?_ ”

“Yes, push!”

“Oh my god!”

Stiles and Danny both yell at the same time. Danny’s thumb pops back into the socket and Stiles falls backwards on his ass. The rest of the team looks like they don’t know if they should applaud or vomit. Danny is breathing harshly, but after only a few seconds he looks up and his expression is controlled.

“Someone is going to have to drive me home,” he says.

 

Stiles ends up being that someone, because apparently shoving someone’s misaligned bone back into place forges some sort of bond between you. He drives Danny’s car, a modest but new four-door, and Scott follows behind in Stiles’ jeep.

Stiles isn’t quite sure what to talk about. He and Danny have never been particularly close, and now there’s this whole thing where Stiles is involved in the supernatural and pretty sure something is wrong with Danny’s best friend but Danny has no idea about any of it.

Surprisingly, Danny is the one to break the silence.

“How is your cousin?” he asks. Stiles stares at him.

“What?”

“Your cousin. You know, Miguel.”

“I don’t have a—” Stiles brakes a little abruptly at a stop sign as he suddenly remembers what Danny is talking about. He doesn’t know whether to start laughing or break down into tears or do both. “Oh, yeah, Miguel. He’s uh, he’s good. Yeah, he’s great, you know. Very... cousiny.”

Danny laughs disbelievingly and shakes his head. “It’s okay,” he says.

Stiles couldn’t be more confused. “What is?”

Danny shakes his head at him again, but he’s smiling, and he looks almost... fond?

“I used to introduce people to my ‘cousins’ too.”

“Oh.” It takes Stiles a moment before he realizes what Danny is implying. He flushes. “No, I mean, Miguel, he’s—”

“Dude, seriously. It’s _fine_.” Danny reaches over with his uninjured hand and actually pats Stiles on the shoulder. “I won’t tell anyone, I promise. You move on your own time.”

“Okay.” Stiles voice is a little faint. He has no idea what to say. “Thanks.”

“Sure.” Danny pats him one more time then takes his hand back. He looks out the window for a moment, then turns back to Stiles with a smirk. “Though, if you are trying to keep it a secret, you should tell _Miguel_ to stop looking at you like that.”

Stiles’ heart inexplicably starts pounding. Have his hands always been this sweaty? Is it even possible for hands to be this sweaty? “Like what?” he croaks.

“Oh, come on,” Danny says, and he’s full on grinning now. “He was eye-fucking the _hell_ out of you.”

Stiles splutters incoherently and almost misses the turn for Danny’s street. He can’t quite believing what he’s hearing. Eye-fucking? Who even says that? And no way was that what was going on that day Derek was in his room. Derek was _glaring_ at Stiles. That’s pretty much the only facial expression he has.

He tries to say this to Danny, but all that comes out is a couple of half-formed sounds of protest. Danny looks practically gleeful.

“If I hadn’t been there,” Danny says, leaning in a little. “He would have you on your back on that bed before you could have gotten your shoes off.”

This is getting too much for Stiles. He pulls the car over abruptly even though there’s a spot further up right in front of Danny’s house. He feels like he’s been held underwater and has just come for air but he can’t quite remember how to breathe right.

Scott pulls his jeep up several spots behind them, and Danny hops out of the car.

“Thanks for the ride!” he says, holding out his hand for his car keys.

Stiles can’t help it, he feels like he has to get this straightened out before Danny leaves. “Der—” he starts, then corrects himself. “Miguel just... He’s kind of an intense guy, but he wasn’t— I mean, I don’t think we’re—”

“Please,” Danny says. “I wasn’t the only one watching him take his shirt off.”

Stiles goes hot all over, and knows he’s blushing from head to toe. Danny gives him one last kind smile.

“I owe you one,” Danny says. “Let me know if you ever need any help, advice, whatever.”

All Stiles can do is nod. Danny waves his bandaged hand at him and turns away towards his house.

Stiles is a little unsteady as he climbs into his jeep.

“Danny okay?” Scott asks.

“He’ll be fine.”

“And you?”

Stiles whips his head around to stare at his best friend. Jesus, can everyone see inside his head today? “Me?”

“Yeah, you look kind of shaken up. Danny’s thumb... man, that was gross.”

“Totally gross.” Stiles takes the out gratefully. He shifts his Jeep out of park and pulls onto the street.

“That was pretty cool, what you did.”

“Yeah, I was just glad he didn’t ask me to cut it off.” Dammit! Scott laughs at the joke but Stiles mentally kicks himself. He was trying to _not_ think about Derek right now, not bring the conversation around to him.

_No more thinking about Derek_. He tells himself. _No thinking about what Danny said. No thinking about being on your bed, a shirtless Derek above you, holding you down with that_ look _in his eyes. None of that._

Stiles is king of resolve. He can do this. He successfully shuts off all thoughts of Derek.

For two blocks.

“Dude,” he asks Scott, and he can already feel the regret for the words about to come out of his mouth. “Have you ever heard anyone use the term ‘eye-fucking’?”

**Author's Note:**

> There will be six chapters of this. Reviews are love, and if so inclined you can find me on tumblr [here](http://lightning-and-a-lightning-bug.tumblr.com/).


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